


Check, mate.

by Melochromatic



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Chess, Drama, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rivalry, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 20:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melochromatic/pseuds/Melochromatic
Summary: Paris, France. ‘85. Legendary chess prodigies from around the globe are gathered to participate in an intense tournament deciding the world champion. Sniper's focus is firmly set on defeating the carefree Frenchman. Eventually, their well known title as "opponents" can no longer describe what is happening between them.A.k.a The Sniper/Spy rival chess masters AU.





	1. Where I Want To Be

“In short, the man’s a fucking bastard.” 

The members of the press gasped collectively, scribbling furiously in journals. Several women turned red in the face or covered their mouths. Few snapped pictures with an audible click, the flashing lights glaring across Sniper’s glasses. The man was well aware his comment would be broadcasted globally, exponentially censored, of course, but his words would travel all the same. 

Maybe he should have kept his tongue in check, but this headline would only add more excitement to the tournament. Everyone loves a good rivalry, and everyone would be bound to choose a side, watching with anticipation for the end result. Sniper did not care for the man in general at all. The slippery, sneaky Frenchman had extreme intelligence, completely soiled with an air of self-importance and overwhelming confidence. It was an attitude irritating as hell. 

“Mr. Mundy, over here! Is it true that, considering some suspect the recent sinking of your country’s peace ship to be by the French, this has strained your relations because of his nationality?” “Do you say this only because he stands between you in the chess title?” “Will this affect your strategy for the future chess tournament?” “Do you believe this man is capable of taking your title?” “What will you do to assure your victory?” The words buzzed past his ears as the confused crowd loomed closer. Sniper, turning his shoulder, avoided all further questions. He walked from the desk in front of the mass, passing the shocked pawns with ease thanks to his adviser being present.

Shaking his head, his adviser sighed. “I can’t believe you did that.” He paused a moment, standing at the side of the Parisian street to hail a taxi for them. Then, the adviser looked at the foul-mouthed man. “I guess that’s why they call you the Sniper. If you play chess like a sharpshooter, your tongue is bound to be as sharp.” 

Sniper smirked and rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh, sorry it ended a bit out of hand.” 

“Well, I guarantee everyone back home will be howling once they hear of this. You left your small country of New Zealand an icon and you’ll return as a god, whether you win or lose. Truly, my job is done here.” 

A taxi halted, and the pair entered the backseat. The adviser gave the location of their hotel to the driver as they departed from the meeting hall. Colorful buildings covered in the darkness of nighttime and lights of nightlife passed as Sniper gazed from the window. Here, in the north of France, the world championship chess competition was being held. Men and women battled each other in their home countries mercilessly, a mock civil war, to earn the privilege of entering this prestigious competition. The man earned the winning title, along with his nickname, “Sniper,” the previous year, in a competition involving only a bit more than a dozen countries. This year, sixty four countries were gathered, the best of the best representing them. The stakes were higher than ever and everyone wanted to win for personal glory, as well as the glory of their countries. The individuals who played chess all had a passion. Behind the checkered board, it did not matter if you were black or white, man or woman, christian or atheist. What mattered was the mind, powering each move and predicting every counterattack. There was a certain power the player of chess held, and each with the same chess pieces to control, meaning equal entitlements. 

“The Frenchman you love so much does have a home field advantage. He is familiar with the venue and is comfortable in his own landscape, but the way he plays is entirely insane. His strategy is that of a mad man.” 

“His strategy is nearly impossible to follow, it is probably brought about through bouts of madness, which may be brilliance. But he is one cocky sonuvabitch.” Sniper reached for the pack of cigarettes concealed behind a handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket, biting back the urge to turn to his vice once realizing he was in a vehicle of public transportation. Eventually, the hotel in the distance came into sight, truly massive, towering over the upper part of Paris with its intimidating and ornate design. Pillars lined the building, evenly spaced around gold trimmed windows, where a faint yellow glow leaked from them. The entire structure was truly one of luxury, the finest of suites. Tourists and businessmen with deep pockets found sanctuary here, but now, the rooms were filled with foreigners bent over chess boards, anxiously repeating stratagem for the upcoming competition a week away. Many were just arriving, but Sniper and his adviser had flown in several day in advance, mostly to familiarize themselves with the landscape, partly to make a public statement. 

“These French ain’t too pleased with us.” Sniper reflected, rapping his fingers against the window crank. 

“Well, we aren’t releasing their men until a confession comes out for bombing our ship. They still deny all things. That filthy Frenchman has close ties with the government, and he sure as hell isn’t going to want to lose to you. They strike against us, and we strike back harder. This game is a reflection on our values, a war fought one on one, so to say. No pressure, though.” 

The edge of Sniper’s mouth curled upward. It was the pressure that was most exciting. He should not be distracted from the other competitors, who posed just as much a threat, but he couldn’t wait to beat this man. 

The men departed from the cab, walking up the white marble steps and entering the double doors, pulled by two men who had most likely been situated there for most of the day, awaiting the arrival of patrons, looking not entirely pleased in their position of work. The adviser veered off to the front desk, requesting his hotel room mail, as Sniper trudged up the spiral staircase, pulling the door key from his pocket and fiddling with the lock. Immediately throwing off his jacket and rolling his sleeves, Sniper sat on the edge of an armchair and turned up the radio as he pooled over the black and white pieces in front of him. 

“Great news!” The adviser burst in, interrupting the trance the sniper had been in. 

“And that is?”

“A press conference is being held tomorrow, involving all the competitors who have arrived early. You have been invited which, of course, you will accept. Also, congratulations, the receptionist just asked me if you were the bloke who had something lovely to say about their nation’s chess representative.” The adviser collapsed across from Sniper, looking exasperated, primarily because he valued his life and did not want to be in a country that already disliked their nationality, but now attacked their prestigious idol. 

“Most likely you will come face to face with the man in question, I know you will not do anything too rash, but also beware of being too harsh.” 

“I can control myself, yes,” Sniper said, moving a white pawn, waiting for his adviser to return the action. “I look forward to this meeting, it means I’m one step closer to beating ‘im.” 

The adviser moved a black pawn, horizontal from the one Sniper played. Casually, as the night grew older, they played, Sniper consecutively winning, often purposely trapping himself in his opponent's strategy in order to contrive a method of getting out of it. He succeeded each time. After the other man’s turn, he would analyze the board, thinking to himself, and then, with the speed of a bullet, he would shoot his piece across to the location he spotted. It was not a surprise that he had earned the nickname “Sniper” from this repeated method of playing, and, in all honesty, Sniper had grown quite fond of the name. 

Eventually, the games were over, and Sniper retired to his bedroom. The rooms were just as extravagant as the outside of the hotel, similarly accented with gold and white. There were two bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen attached to a lounge room. The grand window, once the curtain was drawn, displayed an enticing view of the city below. The people moved like pawns, and Sniper found it intriguing. Like a game of chess, he had a view from the world up above. He was in control. What the media saw, what the press said, it all was because of his actions. They played into his hands like his opponents would, just like Spy would, and he found that thought somewhat intriguing as he sunk into his bed, finding slumber swiftly. 

\--

Sun streamed in the windows, pouring over the rumpled bed sheets. Sniper was awaken by the screaming of the bedside alarm clock, which he promptly smacked to shut it up. Lifting his head from the pillow, Sniper rubbed his face, throwing his feet over the side of the bed and sitting up in order to keep himself from dozing off again. 

_What was today? Oh, yes._ Sniper rushed to the shower, scrubbing his skin with severity and urgency. Once finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned over the sink. He thumbed his jaw, deciding he was in need of a shave. Applying cream, he ran a blade carefully across his skin. He washed his face off, smoothed his hair back, fixed his glasses, and surveyed his wardrobe. He would do without a jacket today. A dress shirt and vest was much more his forte. Maybe a red tie. 

\-- 

“Eh, no Mum, I would not kiss you with that mouth.” A pause. There was some piercing voice coming from the other end of the line. “Yes, yes I know he’s bloody awful but I should not have said that. I’m sorry.” A sigh. “Okay, I am going, yes, love you too, Mum.” He whispered, hanging up the payphone with a distressed sigh. 

“Everything alright in there?” The adviser asked, trying to hide a clearly bemused expression. 

“Yes, let's get going.” 

It was only a short walk to the illustrious convention center, where the conference would be held. Several others bustled by in black and white suits, heading to the same location. Sniper felt a certain thrill, this anticipation was overwhelming, and as the doors were held open to the center, all those feelings hit the shitter. 

There he was. The atmosphere changed. The Frenchman stood, back to the door. Then, he was glancing over his shoulder at the crowd of people entering. Sniper found himself frozen in place. The man was surrounded by a horde of young, blushing reporters. Associates and advisers also stood next to him, who acted as crowd control. A thin air of smoke encircled Spy’s head. His smirk was all too genuine. It appeared that Sniper had caught the man’s gaze in the middle of him laughing at a joke, or perhaps it was natural for him to wear such an expression due to his personality. He wore grey dress pants with a matching vest over a white dress shirt. His eyes were lidded, but still piercing and observant, and an eyebrow was raised almost suggestively. The Frenchman broke eye contact, casually returning to his position as he gave his attention to the press once again, as he pressed his cigarette against an ashtray with his gloved hand. 

How irritating. Sniper was more mad at the fact that he did not feel immediate hatred at seeing the man. He seemed on the surface, well, like your typical flirtatious bastard. Sniper was not surprised to find that the Frenchman was all that he appeared to be and all that Sniper appraised him to be. He completely oozed with overconfidence. He had the press entirely in his hand. However, the most unfortunate thing was that this man almost seemed like he was completely aware of his power. This, of course, had to be a facade. No cocky socialite airhead would have any idea of his situation, or, when it came down to it, the event in question. The game of chess. Chess was for the elite, and Sniper did not want to get his hopes up. He did not want to believe he had found his perfect opponent. If this man did indeed have those eyes of a mastermind that Sniper thought he observed, this person would be the best opponent. Finally, a challenge. But no, this man had luck and luck alone. Lucky to be born rich. Lucky to outsmart his enemies. That could be his only ability, Sniper reasoned. This man was just that, a fucking bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this came while listening to the original recording of Chess, though it's not related to the story at all. I wanted to write something involving Sniper and Spy battling each other through intellect during a time where their countries had troubled relations, along with their conflicting feelings toward each other.
> 
> Chapter Two:  
> "Now back to...this bitch that had a lot to say 'bout me the other day in the press, Miley what's good?


	2. A Battleground For Rival Ideologies

The sniper turned around, walking out wordlessly, leaving his adviser in the heap of people. Fumbling for his cigarette pack, Sniper stood off to the side of the building and took a long drag before leaning against the wall. Observing the wave of people entering, He noticed a wave of reporters exiting in a hurry as well. Wait, why were they coming this way?

Before Sniper had time to release the smoke from his lungs, he was bombarded by press members practically crawling over each other, shouting so loudly that Sniper couldn't decipher a word being thrown at him. He eventually recognized a couple of the reporters as the ones who surrounded the Frenchmen. 

_Ah._

Now it made sense. Sniper took a step back. There was no way to answer the masses and he was not familiar with being surrounded by this many people focused specifically on him. He could only make out the repetitive sound of Spy’s name. Most of what they said were more of comments than questions. If he was observing correctly, Sniper supposed they were quite angry. Most of them had thick accents, making it even harder to discern the prattle. “Have you met the man yet?” “Do you think he holds a grudge against you?” “Do you plan on making amends with him?” Sniper, who had abandoned his adviser, now had no one to tell them politely to piss off. However, Sniper could make out a figure pushing its way through the crowd. No, they were parting to make room for him. Thank goodness for his adviser’s impeccable timing.

Except it wasn’t.

“Everyone, please, leave this gentleman alone. I have just heard word that the American has arrived and has already made his way to the path.” With that, everyone dispersed, off to catch the next biggest news hook. Not only was there a chess competition, there was a press competition afoot as well. The thunderous footsteps hustled off in the direction of the winding path, leaving Sniper completely alone with Spy.

Had that man he insulted called him a gentleman? Sniper did not remember. All he could hear was an incessant ringing in his ears, causing him to feel like he was observing everything that played out before him from the third person. Sniper would not allow himself to feel intimidated, but his heartbeat quickened as the Frenchman approached, swiftly lessening the gap between them. What would he say? Would he confront Sniper? Attack him? Not that he was too worried. The spy was a bit shorter than him and had a muscular but thin frame. In the event of an altercation, Sniper assumed it would be only a little struggle to beat him. He could manage. Also, Sniper could care less if this man came to fight with words. He had no interest in getting to know the man and no regret in announcing his contempt the previous day.

Spy glanced up at Sniper, giving him a smile, similar to the one he had witnessed earlier, as he braced himself for whatever awaited.

“Might I join you?” The Frenchman asked, his voice laced with an accent that Sniper begrudgingly noticed only added to his already abundant amount of charm. This was no declaration of war. Perhaps it was the calm before the storm. Sniper was prepared for the tides to change.

“Go on ahead,” Sniper spoke cautiously, shifting over a bit in invitation.

Spy leaned against the building only a few inches from Sniper, pulling a lighter from his back pocket and flicking out a single cigarette with a graceful motion. The flame danced against his skin and ignited his eyes. Sniper couldn’t help but to observe the man. Then, leaning his head back, Spy blew into the air, creating a whimsical whirl of smoke that ascended to the heavens. The sides of his mouth showed sign of neither frown nor smile. It was an expression of contentment.

“I bet you are waiting for me to tell you to go to hell,” Spy spoke, staring straight ahead.

“Well,” Sniper began, readjusting his glasses and stomping out the cigarette with his feet, “I don’t reckon ya’d have anything good to say about someone who just shit on your name to the media.”

The Frenchman ran a hand through his hair. The corner of his mouth twitched. “On the contrary, I find it quite amusing. It’s not everyday you hear a man speak his mind despite an impressionable audience. For example, I could tell you to go straight to hell and take your puny, filthy country with you. But some things are better left unsaid, no?”

Spy gave him a once over and their eyes met. Maybe this was a challenge. Sniper did not accept.

“Ya better watch that mouth, mate." Sniper murmured through gritted teeth.

“And same goes to you,” Spy spoke nonchalantly. Even when he insulted the bushman, Spy remained completely relaxed, talking quaintly. 

“I call ya how I see ya. And, to me, you don’t seem like ya give a damn about the game and your attitude pisses me off.” Although his words poured out with a bite, Sniper did not feel entirely fueled by hatred or even anger. He spoke as if what he said was just a fact. 

“You can say all you’d like, but that’s simple talk. I’d say the playing fields are level now. It’s your choice if you wish to continue this petty wordplay, or fight me in the competition like a man.” Spy waved away the smoke and kept his casual mood. His eyes were bright and pensive, burrowing into Sniper’s soul like knives. 

Withdrawing his hands from his pockets, Sniper stood up straight. This was a competition between men concerning strategy and intelligence. If he got concerned at all with verbal argument, it could distract him from his goal. The last thing he needed was to be caught in that kind of simple minded trap. He did not want to succumb to this compromise, however, it was not a sign of weakness if he did so. This was strategy. Sniper decided he would choose his battles, and this one was better left as a draw.

“No. This is about chess. I will have the chance to fight ya soon.” Although Sniper disliked the man's personality and ties to the government, this could be overlooked for the sake of the chess title. What was important was how he played the game. He appeared to be the kind of man to take chess lightheartedly, who basked in the media and lived for his own glory.

The spy smiled and held out his hand. “I’m glad you agree. I look forward to beating you.”

Sniper reluctantly grasped the hand with a firm grip and shook once, letting go instantly. Suddenly the Frenchman’s lips were very close, still hot with smoke tickling against Sniper’s ear. “Soon enough you will be able make your move,” He whispered playfully, turning around and disappearing into the building, back to the crowd. Sniper found himself contemplating the strange turn of events. Even when his adviser found him and began cursing him for wandering off, he didn’t really listen. That Frenchman was captivating in all the worst ways, and Sniper felt that only fuel his aggravation although he made a truce with the man.

The adviser led him through the doors he just saw Spy enter. Dodging questions left and right,they maneuvered around crowds of flashing lights and chirping people. A long table was set up at the far end of the building, elevated higher than the floor on a wooden platform. Twenty or so chairs were set at close intervals with each seat having a microphone mounted on the table. Sniper ascended the stairs and took a seat reserved for him, his nickname on a paper in shimmery gold lettering. The conference would be starting soon. Sniper observed the seats next to him and checked his watch. _Five minutes._ There was only one person missing, some bloke who was supposed to be seated next to Sniper. Sniper checked the name tag.

_Goddammit._

The man appeared and sat down. A lady carrying a tray approached the people, offering drinks to the competitors. Spy took one and shook the glass, ice clinking obnoxiously. He stared at it for a second, then, he beckoned the girl closer. Lifting his hand to shield the movement of his lips, he whispered in her ear. She giggled and nodded, taking his glass and rushing off. Sniper lost sight of her as she disappeared among the hordes. The sniper tried to keep his head straight. Others beside him were making light conversation. Sniper did not particularly envy them. The spy, however, was deeply engaged in a conversation with the woman competitor from Spain. She had such a loud laugh, and Sniper wanted to roll his eyes but that would require too much effort. The lady Spy spoke to returned, holding the same tray, placing a glass next to Spy who was preoccupied with his current discussion. Then, she offered the sniper a drink. He thanked her and accepted, of course. Anything to escape whatever madness was surrounding him and bound to unfold when the press began asking questions.

“Compliments of the man to your left,” She spoke cheerfully, and Sniper’s head snapped to look to his side. Spy had his eyes on him. He broke off the conversation with the woman and leaned closer to Sniper. The liquid in the glass was definitely a different shade than the one Spy had before. In fact, now, they both had the same colored alcohol. Sniper took an apprehensive sip and it practically knocked him out of his seat.

“I thought you might be in need of something a bit stronger,” Spy said, rubbing his finger along the edge of his own glass.

Sniper could feel the burn at the back of his throat. This was, indeed, something strong. Yes, he certainly needed it, and, yes, it was fucking incredible.

“Thanks,” Sniper murmured, not entirely wanting to sound grateful, but his relief was all too evident.

A piercing screech rang through the air, halting the talking in the building. Then, a gruff voice rang out over the loudspeaker, shouting about the beginning of the conference. The meeting was set up as a panel so reporters who raised their hand would be chosen by the arbiter at random. They would state who the question was directed to and proceed to ask. Sniper was just about to lean back and relax before he heard his name being the first called. 

“This question is directed toward Mr. Mundy. How has your approach to practicing for this competition changed from the previous year?”

A simple warm-up question. Although he had not expected it, this was an easy one to answer. “Like any sport, people train for years. When an event comes closer, ya begin to focus more on it and develop and improve strategy through practice. The preparation for an event has always been the same, but this year, I ‘ave more competition and more drive to win.” Sniper, satisfied with his response, retreated from the mic. 

Without missing a beat, the arbiter pointed to someone else. They questioned the American, asking about his plan for victory. The man made sure to scatter a few snide remarks against the Russian, who seethed at him across the room. Next, a question was directed to a women from Thailand who spoke of her plans to aid the country’s children with the prize money.

“You in the pink shirt in the back,” The arbiter recognized, allowing him to speak.

“Yes, for Spy, we have seen recently in the media that the contender to your side has made a crude remark about you without apology. Do you have anything you’d like to say to the press as a response?” The crowd buzzed with anticipation.

Pausing and scanning the room, Spy prepared his words.

“Non.”

Everyone in the room had an expression of bewilderment, including Sniper. It was the Frenchman’s right to say something derogatory toward Sniper in the public eye. Sniper had been half expecting it. In order for them to be truly equal, Spy had to say something to the media’s ears, similar to what he had alluded to thinking when they smoked outside earlier. Spy seemed to be playing a mind game with the audience. Only Sniper knew what truly happened. But did that spy even know his control? Sniper still wasn’t too convinced.

“Sniper! What do you have to say?” Voices were suddenly coming without the arbiter’s permission.

“There is no need for us to get bogged down with personal matters when we are all here to win a competition of wit.” The nail was firmly placed in the coffin. The media would now know them as rivals from now on. This kind of rivalry was not through trivial use of foul language. This was one that the media could not get involved in. It was personal, being a game of the mind, and Sniper couldn’t wait to beat the Frenchman into the dust.

The excitement died down as the arbiter regained control of the situation and questions were asked toward other nationalities. Sniper took another sip of the drink, still amazed by the feeling it created. Scooting his chair closer to Sniper, Spy leaned forward.

“Nice work,” Spy commended, reflecting on their deflection of questions earlier.

“Likewise.” Sniper found it easier to praise the man with a bit of alcohol running through his veins.

“That man over there,” Spy discreetly motioned to the side one side of the room, “The young one. Eh, they call him Scout, I believe. Complete idiot. I’m not sure how he keeps his job as a reporter. He thought there were seven countries in the world. _Seven!_ ”

Sniper choked back a laugh. It was an odd situation. The two enemies, decidedly setting aside their differences for the sake of competing because of their differences. The spy beside him shifted, crossing his legs and rapping a pen against his thigh. He had been writing ornate phases in a notebook with blue ink, but Sniper couldn't read a thing since it was in the man’s native language. Several reporters began asking Spy questions which he answered and his tapping ceased. He recrossed his legs, the tight fabric pulling against his body. Sniper's vision began to turn hazy and his thoughts threatened to travel down a dangerous path. Damn the man beside him and damn the drink for messing with him. Sniper forced the image from his mind and begged God above for this conference to be over.

Spy was a fan favorite, especially for the women. It was evident he had more tolerance for their questions. The men, however, were regarded with a certain amount of annoyance. How fitting. Spy had a way of answering that Sniper found vaguely admirable. He chose his words well, without giving too much for the press to twist to their own liking. Years in the public eye had been beneficial to him. Sniper recalled his first time seeing the man in the media, announced as the winner against all other French chess players. Being a man concerned primarily with social matters, Spy was an unlikely contender. Nevertheless, he participated, and advanced rapidly. In the end, he was the final winner against his people, representing France. The administrators of the chess organization decided a decent central location for the participating countries would be in France, possibly attributed to Spy’s influence in government matters as well. Rumors began to surface, suggesting Spy had bribed his way into victory. However, they were quickly subdued. Footage with Spy, competing against others in chess, was leaked, showing just how he won. Sniper was able to study the footage in order to get into the man’s head. However, in every situation, his strategy seemed to be a string of common moves, his opponent being dumb enough to fall into the traps every time. Spy made several official appearances, charming the audience and reiterating his innocence. Sniper watched everything, gradually growing to dislike the man the more he saw him. 

Finally, Heaven had answered Sniper’s prayers and the arbiter declared the conference over. Everyone rose from their respective seating.

“See you in a week, ya spook,” Sniper spoke under his breath.

“A week, repulsive bushman.” A shadow crossed Spy’s face. It was sinister and daunting and sent a slight chill down Sniper’s spine. And then, the expression was gone, and the Frenchman turned around and headed to his group of advisers. Sniper almost could have believed he imagined it all. In fact, he was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. If there’s one thing Sniper had learned throughout the years, it was to never underestimate an opponent. This was the most involved he had been in a competition. In the years prior, he never spoke with press or talked to his opponents. He watched from afar and he kept away from the drama. That was his way of doing it. This year, it was a different kind of competition. He was required to do such things, although he did not care about public opinions, and he was advised to at least try to earn support because he was representing his country. His filter needed some work, though. Sniper loved the game and the competitiveness and the success. He would make sure to take home a victory for himself, for his parents, and for his country. The press gathered around Spy, and Sniper brushed past them. Finding his adviser who gave him an approving nod, Sniper left the building, trying to piece everything together. He walked the streets in solitude, finding tranquility in the cold air and falling darkness. One week and he would be able to learn what Spy was capable of. Sniper hungered for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sniper is proving to be a somewhat unreliable narrator. 
> 
> This chapter was quite difficult to write because I was very unsatisfied after editing it. I posted it, deleted it, and basically stripped it back down to my first draft because I was more satisfied with that. Now, I'm very happy with it and it's back to following what I want to tell. Also, added some backstory. 
> 
> The two have decided to settle this like men...through chess...yes.


	3. What An Exhibition of Self-Delusion

“What do ya bloody mean I don’t go against him yet!” Sniper growled, clutching a packet of paper his adviser just handed him, wringing it into a cylinder as if it had personally offended him. 

“Because of the amount of people, your first opponent will be against you based on rank, and the Frenchman isn’t one of them. Sixty four people today, thirty two tomorrow, sixteen the next, and then what do we get to? Hm?” 

“Don’t mock me,” Sniper huffed, throwing the papers on the counter beside him.

“If you went against him now, you wouldn’t be in the finals together, and that's where the big title is at stake. I guarantee you would see him in the top eight. Your lust for victory will be soothed soon enough, but, for now, relax. Take a seat. This is single-elimination style. You're pitted against people in your skill bracket and then they’re gone. Just make sure not to lose, or you can kiss your chance of victory goodbye.” 

Clenching his fist, Sniper forced himself to reevaluate everything. The scenarios, the visions, and the predictions of his imminent game against the Frenchman weighed so heavily on his mind that it was almost painful to part with them. Sniper, in the previous days, had been advised to quit his incessant watching of the spy’s single game on tape. All those strange sacrifices and simple moves Spy played somehow lead up to his victory. He barely even took the time to think about his movements. If anything, Sniper's constant observation was bordering on obsession, and if he was under some assumption that Spy played the same all the time as in the video, he would be ill prepared for any other opening moves. 

“It’s the big day. Come now, don’t start moping about. This is a completely different type of competition than what we’ve seen before. It says on this paper that you're against the German. Closest rank to yours and similar experience. Lighten up. This is what you live for!” With that, the adviser backhanded Sniper with the sheet that the vindictive man had earlier discarded. 

Eye twitching, Sniper refrained from clobbering his adviser and reclined against the door frame. 

“I'll leave you alone to brood until we leave. We depart in an hour.” The adviser exited their hotel room, and Sniper was left to fume in solitude. What Sniper really wanted was a nap, but getting sluggish would be extremely illogical before the tournament. The top eight would be played in a double elimination style, meaning a loser would still have the opportunity to win. Sniper, however, would not allow himself to be forced into that bracket. The games played today would be conducted at the same location. Large scale competitions such as these had a certain challenge not found in standard chess games. Maintaining focus would prove to be exceptionally difficult. Sixty four people in the same room, arbiter occasionally barking orders, and the constant click of time clocks and chess pieces could prove extremely distracting to any hyperactive subconscious. 

Holding the king in his hand, Sniper traced his thumb along the white wooden edges. Without this piece, there would be no reason to play. Nothing to protect. Nothing to fight for. Nothing to conquer. Nothing to destroy. Though lacking major attack ability, it was still the most exalted piece on the board. Admiring the glossy coated figures, Sniper felt a surge of inspiration course through him. This was the game he played, admired, and devoted his life to. Unlike athletics, this was a sport of a completely different caliber. If you lost, you were a fool, and the winner, a genius. An entire army lay in your fingertips, completely controlled by your every move. Yes, it was powerful and dangerous and Sniper had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. Placing the king in his rightful square, Sniper left the confines of the room, met with his adviser, and they were off. He was ready. 

\-- 

Introductions would be made briefly, none of the players wishing to spend too much time on trivial matters. Today, no one had to worry about an audience to impress. There were far too many people playing at once for anyone to watch a single game in depth, but, news of the victories and losses would be carried out swiftly, and people were sure to be waiting outside to congratulate and question those who advanced or fell. In the end, none of the petty newspaper articles mattered to the competitors. Everyone had a clear goal to become one of the top eight. Everyone dreamed of being crowned Grandmaster. 

Sniper entered the large venue, taking in the sight. The floors were slick, black and white alternating tiles, with tables set up at increments on the squares. Glossy black benches surrounded the room and rose above the floor like a stadium, surrounding them and stopping at the ornate stage. Several people stood near the microphone set in the middle and waited for the competitors to file in. The ceiling, lined with stage lights, illuminated each of the tables respectively. Although they were all in one room, the darkness lit by spotlights over the players provided a sense of isolation. 

“This way, sir. Mundy it is, yes?” Sniper nodded, too busy taking in his surroundings to really focus on who was speaking to him. Glancing about, Sniper finally caught a glimpse of Spy. He stood by a table at the far end of the room, dressed in a pristine white suit. However, he was studying the black pieces, eyes downcast and face contemplative. To an inexperienced player, playing the second move as black would be of a slight disadvantage. That bastard better not lose before Sniper had a chance to beat him. 

“Right this way.” 

Sniper followed the lady leading him through the aisles until he was seated. His table was located at somewhat of a far diagonal from Spy. He had an obscure view of him, but he would still be able to vaguely see him once they were seated. 

“Here’s your table, best of luck to the both of you.” A woman dressing in red with painted scarlet lips, their arbiter, sat at the head of the table, situating herself and preparing her tablet and pen for the upcoming hours. Sniper shook hands with his opponent who was already seated there, the man standing and grinning wildly, taking Sniper’s hand forcefully. Sniper felt a dizzying feeling overtake him as the woman pointed to his seat, his pieces being, much to his contentment, white. The room became increasingly warm, or so he thought. As people filed in, an announcer representing the Chess Federation began to speak. He encouraged everyone to find their respective seating at that moment and allow the tournament to begin. 

Everyone sat down. The shuffling ceased. There was an increasing intensity growing in the atmosphere. 

“You may begin.” In a blur, the announcer's voice bellowed over the venue, and noises of pieces being placed resounded. Sniper had a predetermined method of instantly moving his pawn to e4. Sniper guessed that everyone in the building playing white would begin there, allowing movement for their queen and bishop in the upcoming moves. He tapped the time clock deftly, and now it was the German’s move. He analyzed his situation, trying to determine what kind of opening he would decide play. Sniper felt excitement welling up, consuming his body. His heart raced. Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out any thoughts other than the game at stake. The incessant click of chess pieces echoed, sounding faintly like the click of horse hooves amidst a battle. Yes, this was a battle. The German advanced two spaces forward with his black pawn. The next move Sniper would make was crucial. Looking up with a smile, his fingers hovered over the white knight, and as he went to grab it, his eyes suddenly flickered to a different location. In the corner of the room, Spy, who had already been looking in his direction, met his gaze. The Frenchman’s eyes were narrowed, and a soft smile spread over his face. Sniper fumbled, his hand stuttering before finally setting on the knight, captivated by the man who had most certainly been staring for quite a while. Time seemed to slow down, and Spy picked up his black knight, giving it a small shake before setting it down. Was he taunting him? Sniper immediately tore his head away and slammed the knight down where he planned on moving it. Mouth going dry, Sniper decided his eyes would not leave the board until he had won. 

\--

“Playin’ the Latvian Gambit although you had black. Did they accept?” Sniper observed the legion of chess players, still engaged in their games, hardly halfway through their allotted time for the first forty moves. 

Spy sat with his chin resting in his hand, elbow propped over crossed legs. “Declined,” He huffed. Sniper was not surprised to be one of the first to complete the opening round, however, he was shocked to see Spy rise from his chair, thoroughly wiping out his opponent in less than 20 quick moves. It was madness, actually. There’s no way the man was capable. What did he hold over this competitor? Did the arbiter favor him? His opponent, perhaps, was weak to him. His female opponent could very well have fallen for his distinct aura. Sniper was practically driving himself insane. Sitting next to the Frenchman was too much. They watched over their fellow contenders, and Sniper was quite reluctant to take a seat next to Spy on the benches, but he wanted to talk to him, wanted to figure out his mind. 

“It was a good match overall. The woman was quite friendly amidst defeat. And you, Monsieur Mundy?” Hearing his name combined with French honorifics nearly caught him off guard. 

“Same. Wasn’t expecting the German to start spoutin' off afterward, though. Pretty sure I know what swearing sounds like, even if it’s in a foreign language.”

Spy snickered in response. It was almost as if they were above everyone in the room, having already completed the first game and winning. Like kings, watching from a lofty perspective. Spy in white, Sniper in black. Sniper didn’t want to believe that Spy had a similar position as him, and reconsidered the correlation, finding it unsettling, viewing the Frenchman as a fraud. 

“And how in the hell did you beat the woman so quickly?” Sniper felt an odd sense of fascination, suspicion, and rage building up. 

Spy simply shrugged his shoulders. “I did not hesitate to attack aggressively.” His statement, completely passive when talking about attacking, struck a certain nerve in the Sniper’s body. He deduced that Spy didn’t have a clue what he was saying. 

“That’s ridiculous. If you didn’t use your mind, why the hell even play? Relying entirely only on luck, were you even thinking?” Sniper accused. 

Something changed. Spy narrowed his eyes. His legs unfolded and he sat upright, turning his entire body to face Sniper. 

“And you? Four Knights opening. You nearly had even playing field. A pretty safe play, especially for someone of your caliber. Can’t make too many risks if you want to be crowned grandmaster? Or is it because you simply cannot lose if you want to eliminate me personally?” 

“Alright, mate. That’s it.” Sniper stood abruptly. “I want to take you on right here. Now. Nothing to do with this tournament, nothing with the championship. Just you and I. I’m sick of you behaving like you’re ‘all that’ when you’re nothing without your political and social status.” 

Sniper thought he saw Spy’s eye twitch. 

“I have no need for that instant gratification like you.” Spy scoffed, rising to his feet to stare down Sniper. Spy had a certain growing presence. He appeared larger than before, his stance strong and giving off a sense of power. Fixing any rumples he earned from his sitting position, Spy smoothed out his suit, but his attire was immaculate as ever. It needed no readjustments. He messed with his cuffs, pulling absently at his gloves. 

“Despite this, I humbly accept your offer.” Spy glowered, and Sniper grinned. Grabbing an abandoned table nearby, Sniper pulled it, causing a hideous screech to ring across the room. Sniper’s adviser, accompanied by the Spy’s rushed from the sidelines where they had been observing the two. They watched together, mildly horrified, stifling objections due to the people still playing. 

Spy arranged the pieces that shifted in the move of the table. No, he was moving the board so he could play black. 

“Wait a second, mate. What do you think you are doing?” 

“Setting up the board, is that okay with you?” Spy shrugged his shoulders absently.

“Aw, no, you ain’t. It's not okay. I’m not gonna let you think you’re letting me have an advantage.” Sniper knew how that worked. Spy could say Sniper achieved victory by playing white with an advantage, or mock him by thinking he graced him with a better starting position. 

Spy snickered. “Fine. Since you can’t start aggressively, I’ll show you how to do it.” 

Sniper couldn't believe what he was hearing. What was he playing at? “Hell, I’ll show you I can attack ya twice as hard, even playing second.” Sniper flinched when his adviser touched his shoulder. Giving a confused look to the other adviser, they both realized there was no stopping the two, and then took a step back. 

“Do you want a time clock? You’re not even sitting on chairs!” The adviser's voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you need an arbiter?”

“No.” Sniper announced. Most people had finished their games at this point, slowly gathering around to see what was causing such a raucous. 

“We both know exactly how this game goes.” The spy said, looking to the board seriously, expression traced with determination, and a hint of rage. The man was showing a side to his personality that Sniper did not know existed. Or, he refused to accept existed. Was Spy bluffing? Either way, Sniper was fully enjoying the other man’s energy he was emitting, and it was rubbing off on him. 

The board was in order, there were many eyes on them, but it did not matter. Spy and Sniper locked eyes, Sniper giving an expectant look as Spy nodded. 

It started. In a flash, Spy slapped his pawn on the table, followed immediately by Sniper’s move, and Spy again. It was aggressive, a literal battle between the two, with the game acting as proxy. The whole scene unfolding was completely violent and vicious. Unrelenting, the two rivals moved expertly, without taking a moment to breathe. Sniper did not hesitate, instead, he found it easy to aim and shoot while analyzing the entire situation. _Bishop to G7, followed by white bishop to E4, then knight to F6._ Spy was advancing, but they had the same amount of pieces. Sniper forfeited his opportunity to move in order to castle, switching his rook with his king in order to protect him. Sniper was feeling confident, having a high amount of defense and Spy wildly progressing would only lead to him sacrificing pieces for no beneficial reason. 

Then, abruptly, after several more turns, the flow stopped. Spy stood, looking down thoughtfully as he prepared his next move. Sniper was growing restless waiting, wanting to continue on with it as brutally as before. Sniper paced about for a minute, shoving his hands into his pockets. His focus left the game briefly, and he stared down at the floor. 

“ _C’est ton tour_ , Your move, Mundy,” He purred. Sniper looked down to the board, and immediately, he was overcome with shock. Maybe even horror.

 _The Queen’s Sacrifice_. Spy kept his hand covered over the piece, not yet setting it on the board, so only Sniper saw his move. Sniper had no idea how to respond. It was preposterous. The queen being arguably on of the most powerful pieces on the board, it was madness to sacrifice her. However, Sniper saw the entire game play out in his mind. Of course he would have to capture her, otherwise he would be chased around and forced into checkmate. In doing so, it opened up and advantage for white, impossible to run away from. A complete sneak attack, something Sniper never would have perceived. With a sickening, terrifying feeling, Sniper realized he was going to lose. Many moves had to be played. He still could have a chance. But no. This was a move so haunting that Spy would undoubtedly defeat him. Sniper reached out a shaky hand, wondering when Spy would set the piece down. 

Then, it happened in an instant.

Sniper watched in alarm as the chess board fell to the floor, pieces clicking and rolling in all directions.The table toppled over and clashed against the floor, the entire war coming to an end with a singular movement, except this was from an outside force. Sniper’s hand was still outstretched, ready to accept his demise with dignity. Except Spy had kicked out the table from underneath them. 

“It’s a draw,” Spy smirked, meeting the eyes of the onlookers who gaped at the display. Sniper came to the dawning realization that none of the surrounding people realized what move Spy had played. They were too distracted by the clatter and complete insanity that Spy just displayed by literally throwing the game. “Stay tuned for the finals to see who will win,” Spy said dramatically, turning his shoulder to his opponent and to the crowd.

Everyone broke out into chatter, Spy’s advisers rushing to him, scolding him for, first, taking part in this irrelevant competition, and punting the game across the floor. Spy rattled off a trail of French in response, seeming completely calm. In his hand he held the queen, and he elusively stuck it in his coat pocket. 

And Sniper. Sniper watched, completely aghast. His adviser pulled him away and snapped his fingers in front of his eyes, but Sniper’s mind was traveling through time, recalling every interaction he had with the man. His confident, carefree attitude did not match the amount of power he possessed. It was exactly what Sniper did not want to admit thinking he was capable of. Spy’s chaotic method of playing was something to be feared. But it was incredible. Absolutely admirable. He could have easily won, and in that, winning the support of the public eye. Instead, he put on a show. That man didn’t care about how the public favored him, he cared about winning. Maybe it was a mind game, pretending to be a bad player, or, more likely, Sniper had read him completely wrong, not expecting someone like him be capable of so much under his appearance. 

“I lost,” Sniper breathed. 

“What do you mean you lost? That...immature child threw the board down as if he was having a tantrum. You didn’t even get to finish!” His adviser was completely unaware. Everyone was. Except Sniper. It was something deeply psychological that Spy had pulled on him. He was performing. He was pretending. How long had Sniper been blind to it? In any case, Sniper felt entirely awestruck. Somehow he experienced anger, inferiority, and the sweet satisfaction of being wrong. Spy knew Sniper underestimated him, and Spy showed him he was wrong in an honorable way. Not by destroying their game, but by showing only Sniper his ability, despite being able to boast in that moment. Spy knew it was best to wait until they would officially play against each other. He was an enigma. His mind was horribly breathtaking. Pretending to be superior was not a guise, Spy was actually that superior. He could have taken Sniper by surprise in the finals, but Spy wanted them to both know where they stood. He had to reconsider everything. 

“Hey, wake up. You’re bleeding.” 

Pulled out of his trance, Sniper hurriedly wiped a finger against the bottom of his nose, smearing a small trickle of blood. 

“Damn it,” Sniper growled, covering his face as he tore away from his adviser, he walked briskly out of the bustling room, turning a corner and entering the restroom. He slammed the door behind him.

The sink water ran red, collecting and disappearing down the drain as Sniper let the fluid drip out. This was just a nuisance. 

“Yeah, heard he was raised in Australia, but once they found out he was actually good at chess, his country was quick to make sure they knew where he was born. Had to have some claim to fame I guess?” A group of men, chess players, entered the bathroom, pulling up their cuffs to wash their hands and chatting casually. Sniper, hands placed on the side of the sink and hunched over, looked up at the group and gave an unamused glare. Perhaps it appeared more menacing with blood streaked across his face. The entire group jumped back. The conversation was cut and they hurried out after they finished wiping their hands. Chuckling to himself, Sniper grabbed a few tissues and held them to his nose. The bleeding finally subsiding, Sniper made his way back to the arena. This time, Sniper was seeking out Spy. His thoughts, boiling in his mind, were driving him mad. Statements and verbal attacks were easy to make toward the Frenchman, but not now. Sniper, with a startling newfound respect for the man, realized with distaste that Spy was due for a brief apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this chapter was fun to write. 
> 
> Spy's strategy was heavily inspired by that of Rashid Nezhmetdinov, a Soviet chess player born in 1912. His technique would be deemed as risky and fierce. He sacrificed and attacked his opponents harshly. When he won, he won beautifully.


	4. Everybody's Playing The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How could you expect me to fully enjoy writing an AU based in the 1980's without some complimentary Queen music?

Sniper was not one to dish out compliments, or even admit when he was wrong. But he knew to give credit when it was due. In fact, he felt any resentment toward the man evaporate. It was strange, considering he was shown up by Spy, that he would not come to despise him more. However, in chess, the game was about competition. Winning with ease was simply no fun. Everyone wanted a challenge. That Spy, in his brilliant disguise of aloofness and overwhelming personality, had the brawl and wit to create a situation on the chessboard where he would sacrifice a treasured piece in order to obtain victory. Sniper found himself increasingly intrigued, given that he had misinterpreted the man from the very beginning. He wanted to know more about Spy. Needed to. Sniper had to understand his skill in order to defeat him. Spy was a master of mind games in the most civilized way, and Sniper found it far more fascinating than irritating. However, Sniper felt full confidence that he would be able to attain an answer of how to outsmart and catch the Spy off guard long before their anticipated game. 

But the man in question was nowhere to be found. 

Sniper looked around wildly, finally laying eyes on a group of men and women. He recognized their faces as the ones belonging to those who stayed close to Spy after their game. Without hesitation, Sniper stormed toward the group. They discontinued their conversation and regarded Sniper with a bewildered once-over. 

“Where is he?” Sniper questioned, his haste evident when he spoke. “Spy. Is he still here?” He reiterated. 

The congregation looked to each other, as if contemplating the hazards of giving out Spy’s location. Finally, one spoke up.

“The smoking room, _Monsieur_ , if you wish to find him. It’s through those doors and down the hallway on the left.” She motioned to the front of the room, and Sniper immediately spotted the exit sign above the door. “Thanks,” He said, not looking at anyone in particular. Giving a quick nod, he made his way to the front of the stage, clomping down the steps, and pushing through a set of double doors. He encountered several people, casually talking. A couple were dressed in uniforms, offering drinks and snacks. Sniper declined, although the aroma appealed heavily. With the weight he carried of his near-defeat and the unpleasant feeling knowing he would have to face that damn Frenchman, he did not feel a great appetite. Sniper looked side to side, studying the labels on each entrance. Finally, at the far end of the hall, was a large door. The black plaque with swirling script read _Smoke Room,_ the intricate letters almost circling like the fumes themselves. Sniper inhaled, already detecting the smell of nicotine and tar. He quietly opened the door, greeted by the immediate view of Spy resting in an armchair, legs crossed, staring pensively out the window. This particular stance of self-importance was not at all a surprise. However, Sniper was not expecting to hear the sound of the radio. The soft, pounding sound of bass and complicated guitar riffs, accompanied by a falsetto rock voice did not fit the scene in the slightest. Sniper’s face contorted into one of complete bewilderment, jaw almost dropping, then, it followed with an expression of amusement. 

_What?_

“So...you really do treasure your Queen after all?” Sniper snickered, resting his hand on the railing of the stairs that led down into the lavish space. Quite elaborate for a room that would only be used for those who were in need of a place for lighting their cigarettes.

The corner of Spy’s mouth twitched, as if trying to suppress any emotion that would encourage Sniper to believe his stupid pun was actually funny. A plume of smoke swirled around his mouth, and Sniper thought for just the inkling of a moment, he could see grin, just before Spy placed his cigarette between his lips and removing it. 

“But of course, they are one of the greatest. And the playing piece, without a doubt, just as incredible.” Spy’s eyes finally met Sniper’s as Sniper nodded in agreement. Unfortunately, Freddie Mercury was going on about how his “game of love has just begun” while the chorus repeated the words about "playing a game" for further effect. Sniper, growing increasingly uncomfortable, found the entire situation ridiculous. Couldn’t the world just take one moment of mercy on him? 

“And I know when to sacrifice my Queen when necessary.” Spy leaned over to the radio seated on the table and promptly flicked the volume down to where it was barely audible. Sniper almost sighed in relief. Although he appreciated the band just as much as the next guy, it was quite an inopportune moment for absurd lyrics that Sniper oddly enough had to notice. 

“Did you wish to speak with me, Mr. Mundy?” Spy inquired, “Or did you just need a smoke?”

Everything flashed before Sniper’s eyes again. The game. Not the one against the crazy German, no, that one seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of it all. Every move Spy made. He played chess all the time, his life full of bluffs and gambits and deception. Sniper so desperately wanted to hate Spy, but it was impossible to hate someone so intriguing. Envy, perhaps, but not hate. 

Sniper took a seat opposite Spy, and his voice came out hushed as he finally spoke up. 

“How...did you know to make that move?” There were plenty of things Sniper could have questioned, but this one was most prominent. He did not expect an answer, but at least it opened up Spy’s defense. "It was a big prediction ya made in a fairly short amount of time." 

“On the contrary, I do not give as much credit to myself as you may believe,” Spy started. “I saw a weakness in your well-built strategy. I had to give up something of great value to advance any further. However, I had the clear advantage over you, and not because my move was first.” 

Sniper felt an unpleasant burst of animosity at Spy admitting his power over his fellow player. 

“And what was that advantage?”

“You entirely underestimated me.” Spy clasped his hands together, gaze burrowing through the Sniper’s glasses. His words were harsh.

“A fools move to start.” He stood and paced, as if it were a physical display of him having the upper hand.

“Then, you made your disgust with me evident. In fact, evident to the entire world. Your second mistake.” Spy paused.

“You failed to look at me as a mind and viewed me more as a puppet, a government ploy. Of course, it was easy for you to see me to assume that role. I’ve had that reputation of being a self-important official since the I rose in business, with an abundance of wealthy relatives, and I am content with keeping the true contents of my heart hidden under that facade. Although I thought you would be more likely see through that disguise considering you have similar experience in this world of competition, but you did not. I, on the other hand, was able to gather facts about you as an opponent. I documented your behavior, demeanor, and even other competitor’s views on you.”

Sniper thought back to when he saw Spy writing in a notebook. That bastard had even been studying him then. The nickname he went by, Spy, definitely suited him. 

“They, of course, had their own personal judgement and stereotypes for you as you did for me. ‘Australian wannabe’ was one that stuck out to me. Tried to sign on to represent Australia I hear, but it looks like that didn’t work out too well. Some actually still think you to be Australian, but we both know the truth. Your home country still has some of our military agents in captivity, no?” Spy halted to see how Sniper would react, but Sniper forced his expression to remain unwavering. Over chess complexities, Sniper had nearly forgotten the political strife as well. Sniper wasn’t willing to acknowledge his question. Sure, he had knowledge of the pair of terrorists, but nothing more than what his adviser alluded to. Sniper really didn’t possess as much political power as expected. 

“Finally, your last mistake. While playing, you got angry.” Spy pointed a finger to the air, putting emphasis on how final it really was. 

“I was not angry!” Sniper interrupted defensively, throwing up his hands. Who was this guy acting like he could read him so easily? 

“You behaved rashly. Uncharacteristically so. You so often take your time and wait to engage action. I saw how you played before, but when it came to me, you made movements far too quickly, without analyzing.” 

Sniper gritted his teeth. The spy was right. But not entirely. 

“I still gave it all I had in that moment. And you...played incredibly.” Sniper wasn’t looking up. He sneered while looking to the side, knowing and then actually admitting to Spy’s ability, and, in doing so, admitting to his loss. “Why didn’t you just defeat me there?” 

“Because, _Monsieur_ , you know the reason. I wished to appease your wild proposition. Doing that, I showed you that I am not a fool like you presumed. In the end, you kept your honor since the game ended in a dramatic draw and you also learned I was much better than expected, and I gained all the satisfaction in knowing that you are now worried I could very well defeat you in the tournament.” Spy walked in front of Sniper and leaned down to his eye level. 

“You played dirty,” Sniper gazed in front of him at the expectant spy. “It’s a low blow to try and maintain a guise of being a bloody air-head before a tournament in order to trick your opponents.” Sniper stood up, making sure Spy took in the bit of difference between their heights. 

“No.” Spy’s expression became one marred with a scowl. “I did not attempt to trick you. You simply did not wish to see past your initial perception of me. You were blind.” 

The air was no longer thick with smoke, but the intensity in the atmosphere hung just as heavily. They were both frozen in place, staring intently with a similar expression of anticipation and malice. Finally, Sniper was the first to move, rubbing a hand over his face as he gave an exasperated sigh.

“Sorry.” 

It took every ounce of his willpower to force those words out of his mouth. There. He had done it. Sniper could finally put all this behind him. Now, he had a purpose to win against Spy. No, this wasn’t because he hated the man anymore. His motive had entirely changed. This was because the man was brilliant enough to be worthy of playing against, clashing personalities and general distaste for each other’s nationalities aside. None of that really seemed to matter. They were simply both fighting for the title. Although, Sniper hated himself for knowing he would be happy enough just defeating that Frenchman if he couldn’t win the entire tournament. 

Spy faltered, eyebrows coming together in confusion for just a second. Visibly, he seemed unable to find a proper way to react, so Sniper took the initiative to continue speaking. 

“I underestimated you, but not again. I want to go against you when we’re both at our best. The finals.” 

Spy’s usual expression returned as an approving smile ghosted his face. "As do I. Just don’t make any more mistakes if you wish to get there.” 

“No worries, mate.” Sniper backed away, making his way to the door, and Spy sat down again, returning to the position Sniper had found him in. When he sat there in isolation, staring at the streets below, he didn’t look intimidating. He didn’t look like the man with plenty of colleagues and soaring popularity in social status and business tactics. How was Sniper supposed to know Spy was capable of defeating him in chess? Spy still gave off an untouchable aura, but it was far different than the one Sniper had observed when he first saw the man during the press conference. Maybe Sniper found himself admiring the man, but that was preposterous. Respect? More likely. Sniper did not want to admire an opponent at all, especially the spy. It was normal to regard everyone in the tournament with an equal amount of respect. Sniper had none for the man before, so now, it was more noticeable. Although their differences were abundant, the man wasn’t that different from him in the end. Both out to win, both content with not addressing what people thought of them, both reserved when it came to personal matters. That’s how they had to be. Their lives centered around playing a game.

Sniper’s hand reached out to the door, not before turning around for a final moment. 

“But...was it really necessary to kick over the table?” 

Spy coughed and looked up, alive with self-satisfaction. “It was the best play of the game, if I do say so myself.”

“Quite the unexpected move, that’s for sure,” Sniper responded. Why the hell was he still standing there talking? Sniper shook his head and pushed through the doors again, abandoning Spy while visions of finally relaxing back at his hotel flooded his mind. Finally, the day was coming to an end. 

\--

Spy reached beneath the table, taking hold of the radio transceiver. 

“ _Sait-il?_ ” A voice questioned from the other end. 

“ _Non._ ” 

Spy clicked off the button after the brief exchange, taking out his notebook and writing another sentence before slipping the leather-bound tablet inside his jacket. It was hardly noticeable, but there was just the slightest tremor in his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any historical or chess inaccuracies over the past chapters, you can blame it on being wrong because this is an alternate universe and anything and everything goes. If there are French inaccuracies, you can blame it on me being a stupid American. Actually, you can blame both on that. Although I did a great amount of research, I prefer to remain an oblivious fool if I am wrong. 
> 
> Google translate tells me that the voice asks Spy, " _Does he know?_ " 
> 
> Spy is listening to Play The Game by Queen. Coincidentally, the chapter title still comes from Chess musical lyrics, like all the others.


	5. The One Situation I Wanted Most To Avoid

In solitude during tournament weeks, before he would retire for the night, Sniper generally wished to find the time to do something productive. Anything to sharpen his skill and better his mind before waking up for an event. But, in his hotel room, Sniper was hunched over a newspaper, head rolling forward and jerking up every few seconds as his eyes fluttered open and closed. 

It was some article about the various competitors, but Sniper couldn’t make out the blurring letters as he read the same sentence over and over and over. He was tired. But in the confines of his mind, recollections came to life. A pleasant win against the German man. A less than stellar game against his French opposition. The lingering smell of Spy’s smoke embedded in his clothing, filling his nose and sweeping over his mind. The man he respected and wanted to understand in order to be victorious. As his eyes closed once again, he recalled the swirling text on the paper. There was something about Spy and Sniper, written in black and white. Something about their rivalry. But what was that rivalry? It was something far more than that. Far more had happened that text could not dictate, and press could not know. The only sense that Sniper was sure of in that moment was the smell of that man’s cigarettes, clinging to him like an old friend. It was almost comforting. Comforting? 

Sniper’s head snapped up, eyes blinking out the soporific haze. A certain prickling feeling rose on the back of his neck, spreading to his ears and cheeks. What on earth would ever be comforting about that Frenchman. That nickname simply implied that he should not be trusted. But, in reality, Sniper knew that he was not a bad man. Although Spy was his opponent, he gave off a friendly, comforting aura. That word came up again. 

He’d be damned to think anything about that man was “comforting” in the slightest. They were not friends. For all Sniper knew, Spy could still be the same type of bastard he thought he was in the first place. But Sniper knew that wasn't true. He witnessed the truth firsthand. He was just tired. Unable to think straight. Tuckered out from the day. Sniper couldn't remember crawling in bed. He also didn't recall turning off the lights and pulling the blinds closed. But for some reason when he woke up, he was still wearing the same clothes, still sensing that familiar smell. His sleep had been dreamless and peaceful. 

\--

The players in the tournament had been cut in half. Thirty two went home the previous night, abandoning their hotel rooms, hopes of attaining the title, and pride. People left in droves, and everyone who had made it to the second round either got cocky or nervous. Seeing the venue holding half as many people was a wonderful feeling. It was significantly quieter, and the atmosphere grew even tenser. Even the advisers of the chess competitors grew concerned, rubbing their hands together, discussing in hushed voices strategy and suggesting potential opening plays.

Sniper wasn’t sure what kind of man would be playing against him. He didn’t care. He was there to win, and he need not know the man who would be seated in front of him. Sitting at the table alone, he had arrived a little earlier. Focusing had proven to be quite difficult in the morning, and now, he could finally think clearly. Win against this guy. Win against the next. Make it to the finals. Beat Spy. Time ticked closer, and more people filed in. But their arbiter was running late, as well as his opponent. 

“I have a proposition for you, Sniper.” 

Sniper battled the urge to roll his eyes upon hearing his adviser's voice. He sat down in front of Sniper and hunched over, as if he were preparing to announce something so earth shattering he might fall off the chair.

“I just came from speaking with the Spy’s posse. Someone was actually able to sneak in and take a picture. Look at this.” His adviser thrusted forward a newspaper. Indeed, Sniper and Spy were on the front page. In fact, word had traveled of their mock chess battle, and it was shown in the photo. Spy had a calm, cool expression, while Sniper’s was more wild, eyebrows knit in deep thought. 

“Yeah, I get this is a very unflattering picture of me, what about it?”

“It’s the front page!” He practically squealed beneath his hushed whisper. “You realize, people are eating this up. The two of you? Legendary. To go down in history. Not to give you that much credit though, but it’s quite the public image. A war. It’s everything we wanted to convey and more.” 

Sniper realized that in the heat of personal battles, he almost forgot what the public eye might see of it. This was not an unpleasant outcome. It only added more excitement. More of a reason to win.

“The media is eating this up,” His adviser hissed, pulling back the newspaper and shaking it with vigor. “Anyway, it’s necessary to give the public, well, more to work with, you know?” 

“I guess. But what are you implying?” 

“Well, those buffoons over there,” His adviser jutted his finger to a nearby table, where Spy was surrounded by his typical group, “Asked if you might considering an evening at Le Dali. You know, wine, fine dining, an exceptionally high priced bill?” 

Sniper wasn’t even entirely sure what his adviser was going on about. But it was sounding awfully peculiar. Why did he have to do this anyway? 

“So...You're saying I should go out with Spy?”

His adviser snorted. “If that is what you see it as, sure, why not? A date. But in actuality, it is a meeting of sorts. Of course professional. A discussion of strategy and a truce before you both decide to play against each other again.” 

“And he wants to have this meeting?” Sniper questioned, in a vague attempt to piece it together. However, he was still trying to maintain focus on his upcoming game. The two actions proved to be quite contradictory. 

“Of course. He was the one who suggested it.” 

Sniper took a moment to look up and search the room. Yeah, there he was. Spy’s lips planted a soft kiss on his female opponent’s hand. The man must have sensed Sniper’s stare, and his eyes flickered from the woman’s skin for just a second. They both looked at each other. Sniper nearly jolted from his seat, ripping his head back and looking at the giddy man in front of him. Well, it was necessary. A social move for press to take and explode, that was just part of the game, a need to win public favor. Also, it gave him a chance to learn more about the man’s motive. And strategy.

Yes. 

This is what Sniper needed. A chance to talk again. Of course Spy wanted to play that game too. They both still knew too little about each other’s ability. Sniper’s blinded by his anger and desire to win, and Spy catching him off guard, being far better than Sniper could ever imagine. 

“Fine. I’ll do it.” Sniper huffed for exaggeration, but felt pretty resolute on his decision. 

“Wonderful. Perfect. I’ll let them know. Now, forget that I distracted you with that. Who am I kidding, you’re in a much better mood now.” His adviser slipped out of the chair and snaked away, leaving the man to himself once again. 

Eventually, his opponent showed up. However, Sniper wasn’t entirely prepared for a woman to take place across from him. She had dark hair, framing her face in sharp angles, cobalt eyes, a mischievous look, a skinny waist. And boy, did she reek of perfume. It was actually causing Sniper’s eyes water. Good God, he was going to suffocate before getting to finish the game. Women were cruel. She offered a hand, however, Sniper made no display of kissing it obscenely like someone sitting a few seats away. 

Finally, soon after, the arbiter showed up. And it was a heated match from the beginning to the end. Women fought in a chess game with a certain vicious desire to display mental prowess unlike any other. Although men seemed to find it hard to differentiate the game from reality, becoming consumed in a mock war, women were all too aware of their ability and how to channel it through the sport. Each move she made was one swift, calculated gesture. Her pink lips curled into a wicked smile when Sniper found himself contemplating the moves she made. But Sniper had too much experience to fall for any tricks of hers. He had played similar games as such before. An opponent with a threatening and omniscient air to add to their skill. That was easy to ignore. And after a while, that smile turned into a grimace, and her fluid movements turned into fumbling advances. 

Sniper was victorious yet again. 

\-- 

He had approximately thirty-five minutes to get ready, change his clothes, fix his hair. Thirty-five minutes to reevaluate his decision and run over the possibilities and undesirous outcomes of a hasty decision that only had one major benefit. Thirty-five to just sit around and do nothing while thinking of things he really should be doing. Sniper bit at the edge of his thumb unceremoniously why mulling over his current situation. 

But eventually there was the sound of a horn from the streets below, and his chest tightened for a moment upon hearing it. This was quite a more formal meeting with Spy than he was familiar with. Camera flashes and both clad in suits and Spy would probably be wearing that trademark smirk that Sniper was still sure he kind of hated for some reason. But at least it would be a mutually friendly encounter. Placid, maybe even dull. Sniper wasn’t expecting much, but he was intrigued in learning more about the man. 

Sniper grabbed his wallet, which held only a few bills, a passport, his ID, and a picture of his parents. Sniper considered removing it, imagining the spy smugly commenting on the image, until he heard the horn once again. He pushed his wallet in his back pocket and dashed from the hotel room. 

The first sight Sniper took in when exited the main door of his hotel was a long, sleek, limo. Sniper suddenly felt the urge to run. He was never one to engage in a lavish lifestyle, the finer things were few. And a limousine? Unnecessary. But he almost jumped when the door was opened and Spy was there to welcome him. Yes, it would make sense to travel together, but Sniper didn’t completely think it would actually happen. The man inside wore a striking blue pinstriped suit, and had one arm hung over the back of the seat. 

“Good evening, Mr. Mundy,” Spy smiled, moving over just the slightest. Sniper gulped and crouched, sinking into the leather interior at the far end of the car. He noticed an abundant amount of cigarettes taking home in an ashtray next to the man.

“Evening,” Sniper muttered, stretching out his legs and interlacing his hands as the door closed. The vehicle lurched to life and Sniper looked out the window in an attempt to conjure something, anything, to say. But not about chess. That’s what dinner was for, where Sniper would learn more of Spy’s strategy. But now. 

“So, do you...like this restaurant?” Sniper almost cringed. And Spy just flashed that charming smile. 

“Of course, one of my favorites. Wonderful view, good food, decent portions, and beautiful waitresses,” Spy recalled.

Sniper rolled his eyes. 

“Must be good then,” He remarked sarcastically, rubbing his thumbs together. 

“Only the best for the best.” 

Sniper couldn’t tell if he was talking about himself, or Sniper, or the both of them. He guessed the obscurity of it only added to the suspense concerning the results of the competition. One thing Sniper did know was that their knees were colliding and rubbing upon every left or right turn the driver made. And it was warm, causing some sort of electric buzz that constantly shocked Sniper into noticing it. 

“Have anything clever to say to the reporters with that sharp tongue on yours when we get there?” Spy questioned, and the tongue comment echoed more than it should have in Sniper’s ears. What was getting into him? 

“Well, I’m not planning on calling anyone else a fucking bastard unless they deserve it.” 

“Of course not, _mon ami_ ,” His voice softened around the French phrase. Sniper wasn’t sure if it was a term of endearment or disgust, but he voted that the former was more likely, only because Spy held such a tranquil expression. 

“You’re a pro at playing games with the press, I’m sure you’ve got something sneaky planned though,” Sniper commented, fighting that tone of admiration that threatened to spill.

“Unfortunately, I’ve been asked to keep anything too extravagant to a minimum. The main attraction is that we have agreed on dinner together, let the press write the rest for themselves, and keep them entertained by that lack of information." In fact, Spy had been given very strict orders. 

The limo came to a halt after the short drive, and Sniper looked to the towering hotel which doubled as an ornate restaurant. He observed the flock of people congregated outside, camera lights already sparking as they prepared to exit. 

Sniper hoped this whole event would be worth something, and prayed it wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: It does.


End file.
